The Redhunter

by William F. Buckley

  On getting word from McCarthy that he would be chief counsel, Roy Cohn planned and consummated a swearing-in ceremony in grand style.

  Sam Tilburn spoke of it to Ed Reidy. “Cohn managed to produce J. Edgar Hoover at his swearing-in. Granted, Roy’s father is a well-liked judge in New York, but it wasn’t the old man who was master of ceremonies at this affair, it was Roy. I was specifically invited. I wondered why. Because I had said an occasional good word about McCarthy? Hell, no, I haven’t run into one reporter on the Capitol beat who was not invited. But I did go, and so did a couple of others. McCarthy was beaming like a proud father. He told me Roy was ‘the most brilliant young person’ he ever met—”

  “Maybe he is,” Ed Reidy commented. “Who’s the competition? How many brilliant young people has Joe McCarthy met?”

  “I don’t know. But you can be sure of this, that the McCarthy committee, with Cohn running it, is off to the races.”

  The Signal Corps investigation was, for Roy Cohn, a big-stakes race.

  Meredith O’Toole stared at the one letter. It had been a crowded week, a terrible week. On Tuesday, the heart seizure. She drove Jimmy to the hospital, they did what they could, but pronounced him dead two hours later. Dead at sixty-one. Then the wake. Then the funeral. Their only son, Bobby, was in Korea. Meredith had for company from the family only her spinster sister. There were others at the funeral, four or five fellow clerks from the FBI and a few friends. The O’Tooles mostly stayed at home. A colleague once twitted Jimmy that anyone who was personal file clerk for J. Edgar Hoover had better look inconspicuous, and act inconspicuous.

  But now, on the very afternoon of the funeral, Meredith had undertaken to look at Jimmy’s personal papers. He had them in a large safe, a cast-off from old FBI safes replaced by modern equipment after the war. Jimmy had instructed her on what the combination was, and it was written in simple code in the family bible. You always added two to the number shown. So that 4-8-9 would become, in the real world, 6-0-1. 2R meant two revolutions to the right. 1F, one to the left.

  She didn’t know what was in the safe other than his will, and had little reason to be curious about it, as it was inconceivable that Jimmy had hidden assets. Still, he was a fastidious man, and whatever was there, he’d have wanted Meredith to look at—what else was the point in putting it in a safe and giving her the combination?

  But this letter. What was it doing in Jimmy’s file?

  Meredith didn’t follow the news carefully, and Jimmy never talked about his work at the FBI. But she was alarmed by what she read. She couldn’t quite elaborate for herself what would be the consequences of its disclosure, but—well, it would be serious business, she thought.

  She suspended her examination of other material in the safe, what seemed a hundred folders, many of them including newspaper clippings. And of course his last will and testament, which told her nothing she didn’t expect. The letter was very much on her mind when she put it back and locked the safe, and went to the kitchen to make some soup and see if she could distract herself with I Love Lucy at eight o’clock.

  But she couldn’t keep her mind even on Lucille Ball. She knew what she was worrying about. That the FBI—that the director—would … discover the letter. What would happen then! Certainly she would risk losing her pension, and the thought of this was intolerable. She had to do something.

  Burn it?

  That would have desecrated Jimmy’s memory, she concluded. She would say a Rosary and pray for guidance.

  The next morning she had resolved what to do. She drew the letter from the safe, inserted it in an envelope, and wrote out the name of the man Jimmy always spoke of as a great American who cared the most for his country. The newspaper accounts of the wedding had said the newly-weds would live with the bride’s mother. She looked in the phone book and wrote down the address. She would not trust it to the mail, perhaps to fall into alien hands. She would have it delivered to his house.

  She took the bus, the same route as when she took Bobby there, the first semester days, before he could look after himself. She knew the route to Hamilton High School and the parking lot where some of the older boys and girls, those who used the family car, would come in for their late afternoon and evening courses.

  She watched the young people coming and going, and decided that the time had come for a leap of faith.

  She approached the young redhead about to lock the door of the prewar Ford.

  She smiled and spoke directly. “Can you do me a favor?”

  The young man, his hair combed, wearing a sport shirt and jeans, answered politely.

  “What is it, ma’am?”

  “I have a letter here I want delivered to Senator McCarthy at his home—the address is written on the envelope. It is very important to me. If you will do this—Haydock Street is only a few minutes away—I’ll give you twenty dollars.”

  “Twenty dollars? … You mean when I come back you’ll give me twenty dollars?”

  “No. If you say you will do it, I will take your word for it and pay you now.”

  He pulled the car key from his pocket.

  Meredith O’Toole smiled, gave him the envelope and a twenty-dollar bill. And said, “Just give it to him, personally, and don’t talk about it, that’s all.”

  “Okay, ma’am.”

  The young man inserted the car key, opened the car door, and drove away.

  Meredith O’Toole would never know what happened, she said to herself on the bus going home, but she was certain that Senator McCarthy would do the right thing.

  The knock on the bedroom door had to be Mrs. Kerr. McCarthy assumed his landlord was looking for her daughter.

  “Jeanie’s not home yet, Elizabeth.”

  “I know. But it’s for you, Joe. There’s a man here with a package, but he says he can only deliver it to you directly. Do you want to come down, or shall I have him come up?”

  “Send him up, dear. I’m in my underwear. I’m shaving, you’ll be glad to know.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to interrupt that.” Elizabeth Kerr—the mirror caught Joe’s smile—had joined the anti-McCarthy conspiracy to keep him closely shaved.

  In a moment he opened the door to what seemed a boy, not more than eighteen, perhaps twenty. The young man was nervous as he fumbled with one hand in his pocket, pulling out an envelope. He thrust it at McCarthy.

  “That’s all, Senator.”

  McCarthy reached for the envelope, eyeing the messenger suspiciously. On impulse he grabbed the parcel from the messenger’s left hand and with his right, the messenger’s wrist.

  “Let me see your credentials, sonny.”

  The nervous voice replied. “I’m just—freelance, Senator.”

  “Who’s your employer?”

  “Nobody. Just somebody.” He was not about to betray his benefactor, even though he did not know her name.

  McCarthy released his grip and leaned over to pick up the envelope he had dropped. The messenger took that moment to break away and rush through the open door, barreling down the staircase out to the street. McCarthy went to the window and saw him lunge into the car he had parked outside the house, its motor left running, and speed off. McCarthy went to the bathroom and dried off his face. Sitting in his shorts on the bed he opened and read what appeared to be a copy of a letter. It was addressed to “Honorable George E. Allen, Director, Reconstruction Finance Corporation, Washington, D.C.” It was typed on the letterhead of the FBI, Office of the Director, marked PERSONAL AND CONFIDENTIAL BY SPECIAL MESSENGER, dated May 29, 1946. The salutation was “Dear George.” It was signed “Edgar.”

  After reading it, Joe continued to sit on the bed. After a moment, he reached into the pocket of his jacket on the chair and pulled out his telephone notebook. He picked up the phone and dialed FAirview 3232. “This is Senator McCarthy,” he said to the operator. “I want to talk to the director.”

  J. Edgar Hoover had not been quite as accessible in recent months, not as much as he
had been during the first year, McCarthy thought.

  The operator reported back that the director was in conference.

  “Then put me through to Lou Nichols.”

  “Lou? Joe here. Tell the director I want to talk to him like right away, and it’s for his own good not to waste any time.”

  “Nothing I can take care of, Joe? Anything I can do … ”

  “No, Lou. I’m at home. Will be here—Jean’s mother’s house—LUdgrave 2747—for fifteen minutes. That’s fifteen minutes, Lou.”

  “I understand.”

  The telephone rang five minutes later.

  “Edgar,” McCarthy said, wasting no time in greetings, “we need another of your bubble conferences. As I told Lou, what I want to see you about is very much in your own professional interest.”

  Hoover could be very direct.

  “Lou will call your office for a date.”

  “A date tomorrow?”

  Hoover hesitated for a moment. Was he looking at his calendar?

  “A date tomorrow,” he confirmed.

  McCarthy was relieved that Jeanie had not come home during his conversation with the director. Something very weird, and conceivably dangerous, was going on. He’d as soon leave her out of it, at least for the present.

  The arrangements were as before. This time McCarthy did not nod off while driving with “Henry” at the wheel. About ten minutes before the car’s estimated arrival, after apologizing, Henry requested the senator to put on the proffered eye mask. “The director just plain insists on it. Not that there are that many people who come out here. The director only brings in a very few people here. But it’s always this way.”

  McCarthy donned the mask and, when the car came to a stop, walked, as the autumn light began to fade, from the garage to the front of the house and up the stairs. He climbed to the second floor. The door opened. The director was in his chair, his coat off, his suspenders gripping his loose shirt. They shook hands.

  “What you got, Joe?”

  McCarthy removed the letter from his pocket.

  “First: I haven’t the slightest idea how this was slipped to me. None of my usual people. It’s four pages, but I’m just going to read you two paragraphs. This,” McCarthy said, as he peered intently, examining the document, “is addressed to George Allen. It’s signed ‘Edgar,’ and it’s dated May 29, 1946. The first paragraph reads,

  “ ‘I thought the President and you would be interested in the following information with respect to certain high government officials operating an alleged espionage network in Washington, D.C., on behalf of the Soviet Government.’ ”

  He looked up at Hoover. The muscles in his face were clenching.

  McCarthy returned to the letter. “ ‘Information has been furnished to this Bureau through a source believed to be reliable that there is an enormous Soviet espionage ring in Washington’—this is you talking, Edgar—’operating with the view of obtaining all information possible with reference to atomic energy, its specific use as an instrument of war, and the commercial aspect of the energy in peacetime, and that a number of high government officials whose identities will be set out hereinafter are involved.’

  “You then go on—this is your letter, not a forgery, right, Edgar?”

  Hoover said nothing.

  “You then go on to list department heads in federal divisions that touch on atom energy or the atom bomb. And then you say,

  “ ‘The individual who furnished this information has reported that all of the above individuals mentioned are noted for their pro-Soviet leanings, mentioning specifically Alger Hiss of the United Nations Organization.’ Then there are two more pages.” He looked up at Hoover.

  His face was now the famous Hoover red. He ground his back teeth. “What do you want to know, Joe?”

  “I want to know if the president of the United States saw your letter. I mean, did you send the same letter to him? You didn’t send it just to George Allen, did you?”

  Again Hoover was silent.

  “Because you know what, Edgar, I doubt that you ever did. I can’t imagine Truman, in December 1948, saying the prosecution of Hiss was a red herring if he heard from you in May 1946 that ‘a source believed to be reliable’ informed the bureau that—”McCarthy looked down—”Hiss was ‘noted for … pro-Soviet leanings.’ ”

  McCarthy sat back. “You know what I think, Edgar? I think you never told the president about this, and I think you wrote that letter to Allen for the record, and I’m even wondering to myself—Did you actually send it to him? And I’m thinking, McCarthy is thinking, that maybe you were afraid to deliver it to Truman.”

  Hoover spoke. “You’re not, I mean, you’re not—”

  “No. Obviously I’m not. But I’m thinking there’s got to be an explanation for Truman exposing himself the way he did on the Hiss business with you sitting here with incriminating evidence—”

  “Whittaker Chambers had plenty of incriminating evidence against Hiss. All of it was available to the president.”

  “But a lot of people thought Whittaker Chambers was a liar. Nobody thinks you are a liar. What I got to know, Edgar, is something about your source. Because I don’t know how many other people have been fingered by this same source who are still in government, and maybe you, like in the Hiss business, aren’t about to tell the president who they are and where they’re hiding. Edgar, what I have in my hand is—can be—the biggest explosion of your, or my, lifetime.”

  Hoover got up. He peered at the sketch on the wall behind his desk. Washington, 1860, Awaiting the Arrival of President-elect Abraham Lincoln. He paused and then said, “There’s one great secret in this town.”

  McCarthy waited.

  “Six people know it.”

  Again McCarthy sat silent.

  “We broke the Soviet code in 1946. The Venona files, we call them. They expose Hiss.”

  “You didn’t tell Truman?”

  “I didn’t tell him. If he was told, others surrounding him would know. And some of them were also named in the Venona files—not, presumably, as agents, like Hiss. The decoding is still going on and will be for years. But the way their names were used—we just had no way of telling. All we could do was watch them.” Hoover’s normal color had returned. “The one thing I figured we couldn’t afford was word getting back to the Kremlin that we had cracked their code.”

  “You still got it? The Soviet code?”

  “Joe, I wouldn’t tell you that, and you shouldn’t ask me.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you also understand that if you let out what’s in that letter, the Soviets are going to know we’re onto them? And, incidentally, I’d get fired—overnight. You willing to see me replaced? You know, Joe, you owe me quite a few. I’ve stood by you. And you know what I’ve tried to do for—the country.”

  McCarthy was again silent. He looked up at Hoover. In slow motion he reached into his pocket, brought out the letter, reached his hand over the desk, and dropped it in front of the director.

  “I made no copy. I trust you. You got a drink in this here bubble, Edgar?”

  “Thanks, Joe.”

  After Senator McCarthy left, Hoover sat back and pondered the letter left on his desk. McCarthy had guessed correctly. He had never actually delivered it. He had indeed wanted it in his private file, just in case. There was only one human being who had access to it, his file clerk.

  He picked up his hot line to his office, to the operator whose only duty it was to attend his line.

  “Put me through to my file clerk, what’s his name, O’Toole.”

  “Sir, Jimmy O’Toole died on Tuesday.”

  Hoover put down the phone slowly.

  There was nowhere to go. He’d have to hope and pray that the only copy was the copy that lay on his desk.

  52

  McCarthy begins the Monmouth investigation

  McCarthy, returned from the Bahamas, convened a meeting of the executive committee of the Governme
nt Operations Subcommittee. He told his colleagues—Republican senators Mundt, Dirksen, Potter, and Democratic senators Symington, Jackson, and McClellan—that he intended to go immediately to Fort Monmouth to conduct hearings, with his counsel, Roy Cohn.

  He left from his office to the airport and caught a flight to Newark. A lieutenant from the public-relations office of Fort Monmouth was waiting for him. At the base, McCarthy and Cohn entered the room that had been prepared for them together with the stenographer who had been brought in to record the proceedings.

  Two hours later Senator McCarthy emerged. Two reporters were there, and a television cameraman. He advised the reporters that Fort Monmouth had a severe loyalty/security problem that required immediate attention. He took reporter Annie Stephenson from the New York Daily Mirror to one side. “Annie, keep your eyes on this one. I think we have a real scandal here. Incredible, the army has let this go on. I’ve scheduled more meetings, tomorrow and maybe the next day.”

  Two days later he was back in Washington from New Jersey with Roy Cohn, arriving haggard at his office early in the afternoon. He sat down at his desk and asked for Harry.

  “Harry’s working on your Wilmington speech,” Mary Haskell told him on the intercom. “He’s working at home.”

  “Tell Harry—tell Roy to tell Harry—to bring his speech draft to the meeting I’m scheduling. I’m inclined to let the White House have it, Mary. This is too much—”

  “Joe, I have some calls for you you’ll really want to make. There are the usual hundred press calls, but there’s also … ” Mary looked down at her notes.